


Wharf Rats on the Stage

by Roscavenbar



Category: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roscavenbar/pseuds/Roscavenbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let your freak flag fly, Steve." The story of how Little Steven got his bandanna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wharf Rats on the Stage

When Steve failed to show up to practice, Bruce was mildly pissed off.

When Steve failed to show up to the gig, Bruce was deeply pissed off.

By the time Bruce had used most of a roll of quarters establishing that nobody was home at Steve's folks' place and nobody Bruce knew was free to play bass (it being Saturday night), he was ready to kill the little bastard for fucking up the gig that Danny was currently desperately trying to convince the manager they could still play, after all not having no bass player never hurt the Doors any, because Danny and Bruce both knew that without the gig, none of them could afford the gas to get back home. Danny pleaded, all big eyes and soft hair, sweet and innocent like some stoned-out choirboy, and the manager said screw it, whatever, just fucking play and we'll figure out the money later.

Five am, they'd played a scrappy, distracted set and then couldn't find the manager to get their money, and now Bruce was slamming his final quarter into the payphone, preparing a rant about how Steven could shove his guitar up his ass, there was no way the club was gonna let them back after that, what the fuck did he think he was playing at bailing on them?

 _Beeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeeep._ Bruce's knuckles tightening white on the receiver. Behind him the sounds of Danny and Vini packing up.

"Mary Van Zandt speaking." Steve's mom's voice full of sleep or maybe she had a cold. OK Bruce, calm down. Don't yell at the nice lady.

"Hi, it's Bruce. I'm sorry, I know it's early, but have you seen Steven lately?" Vini's angry voice from somewhere back in the club.

A sob. "Oh Bruce...there was a car crash...he's in the hospital."

Ice in Bruce's guts. A roaring in his ears.

"Is he all right?" Bruce's voice was a croak.

"They don't know. He hit the windshield with his head" - a sucker punch in that tender place just under Bruce's ribs - "and he's a mess, but the doctors say they can't see any damage. But he's not making any sense when you talk to him, I'm going back as soon as I can..."

"Which hospital?" A tap on his shoulder. Danny mouthing _What's up?_

"St Michael's, but you can't go now, visiting hours start at..."

"OK, OK, Thanks, Mrs Van Zandt," and Danny had a hand on his back and was saying c'mon Bruce, you gotta help me, he ain't fuckin' around this time, and pointing at Vini who was jabbing the manager in the chest roaring something about playing all fucking night and you're just gonna stand here and rip me off, you little shithead, and Danny said seriously Bruce, NOW. They pulled Vini away just as he threw the first punch and it glanced off the manager's chin rather than busting his teeth in, and the next thing Bruce realized in the confusion was that they were out on the turnpike with Vini at the wheel and Danny next to him telling him hey, at least we got _some_ money and didn't get arrested this time, you know I'm right, you're gonna start to come round to my way of thinking once you take a hit offa this, what's up with Bruce anyway, hey Bruce, you OK?

Bruce somehow got the words out, that the reason Steve hadn't showed up was he got in a car wreck, they had to go to St Michael's and see him, seriously, go NOW. Vini pointed out in his most reasonable voice that parking out there with all their instruments and shit in the van was a stupid fuckin' idea, and let's get home and unload and then go, an hour one way or the other won't make any difference, and Bruce said fuck you Vini, I gotta see him, and Vini's fists clenched on the wheel like he was planning on his second fight of the night before Danny said guys, guys, GUYS, what we'll do is Vini drops Bruce off at the hospital and then we'll go home and I'll come by in my car, OK? Just need to stop for gas, oh shit Vini, PLEASE tell me you got the money before you picked a fight with that guy, thank Christ, you did.

The ride to the hospital was a blur of swerves and screeching brakes and Vini cursing at the rush hour traffic and Danny cursing when his dope spilled everywhere and SHIT THAT'S A COP SLOW DOWN MAN as Bruce stared down at his hands and tried to shake the pictures in his head of Stevie dead or dying or in a coma or all fucked up with brain damage. As they pulled up outside the emergency room, Vini turned back to look at Bruce.

"Pick you up after we drop this shit off, right?" His voice was gentler than usual.

"It's OK, Vini. I know you got stuff to do."

"Say hi to him, OK?"

"Sure." Bruce jumped out of the van, almost fell on his ass and stumbled inside. The nurse scowled at him because ER nurses have seen all they ever need to see of scrawny wild-eyed long-haired incoherent boys stumbling through the door in the wee wee hours. Her name tag was askew and Bruce could only see her first name. Mary. Mary something.

"What do you want, kid?"

"My friend, Steven Van Zandt, he was in a car accident, he has head injuries, I have to see him..."

"Visiting hours start at nine," and the nurse's glare was the glare of a longshoreman looking down at a wharf rat, the glare of all the nuns at school saying Bruce, you are a disappointment and a very bad boy, and he hung his head like a kid all over again and knew that no amount of begging and pleading would do it - damn, he could have used Danny's sweet-talking now - and muttered all right, fine, sorry to bother you ma'am, is there someplace I can wait and maybe a bench to take a nap on?

Maybe she had a kid of her own, or a baby brother. Maybe she was a sucker for curls and big brown eyes. Maybe Bruce just looked so utterly broken-down and defeated that she took pity on him. She sighed and shook her head.

"I really shouldn't do this, but...you said his name's Steven Van Zandt? Come on then."

She led him through corridor after corridor. Green tile. Signs with complicated words meaning God knows what horrible things could happen to a person. A ward. Curtained beds.

"He's in there. Don't get him agitated." The nurse touched Bruce's shoulder and disappeared. Afraid of what he might see, feeling sick, Bruce parted the curtains.

It was Steve. Had to be. He lay in the bed, eyes closed, looking even smaller than usual. They'd shaved off his hair, and his head, oh _fuck_ , his head was a mess, drying blood and livid bruises and ugly stitching.

Bruce's dad, when he was in one of his rages, had once yelled kid, you have no fuckin' idea that you ain't gonna live forever, spending all your time with that goddamned guitar and the crazy way you fuckin' drive, but you ain't. Just the bitterness of a crazy, cranky old man who needed a shot of Thorazine more than a six-pack of Hamm's, Bruce had thought then, but shit, that's Stevie lying there, one dumbass doesn't see the light and maybe someone as smart and sweet and wicked funny as Steve could be gone forever. A state trooper knocking in the middle of the night, handing Steve's mom his wallet, still warm. Never really hit home before now.

Tears came. "Jesus, Steve..."

Steve's eyelids twitched open.

"Hi Bruce."

Bruce forgot what the nurse had told him, forgot that everyone knows you really should never move a person with head injuries at all because Steve was alive and he knew it was Bruce, he had to be all right. Bruce slipped an arm under Steve's neck, pulled him close in a tight, rocking hug. Steve's stitches and shaved hair prickled against Bruce's cheek, and the hot tears spilled out of Bruce's eyes.

Hours or maybe seconds passed before a metallic crash and a yell from outside broke the silence. Bruce sprang away from Steve, suddenly self-conscious. _Ain't exactly manly. Whatever that means for a scrawny little 4F with hair the girls ask if they can braid. Men shake hands and pat shoulders and only cry at funerals. And Steven's alive._

"Steve. You OK?"

Steve blinked.

"No. Not OK."

Pain in Steve's face. Another punch in Bruce's guts.

"Doctor says I won't never get it back again."

"What?" The room seemed to lurch and shift.

Steve muttered something that Bruce couldn't make sense of.

 _"What?"_ Shit, couldn't he talk right anymore? What had been smashed out of him onto the windshield?

"I said, my HAIR won't never grow back right."

Another lurch as the colors seemed to come back to the world. Bruce wanted to hug and strangle Steve at the same time.

"Your _hair_? That's it? Fuck me, I was thinking you had _brain_ damage!"

Steve's eyes filled with tears.

"It's not fuckin' funny man. Girls ain't gonna look at me twice. And whoever heard of a bald rock'n'roll star?"

He kinda had a point, Bruce thought. The Beatles, the Stones, the Rascals, the Animals - even Elvis had a whole lotta hair. And that was just the _white_ guys. Bruce had ridden in _cars_ smaller than James Brown's hair.

"C'mon, maybe it ain't that bad. Doctors don't know everything."

"No, it's that bad. Seen it myself." Steve gestured to the nightstand, on which a small hand mirror lay.

"You carry that around with ya? Need to check your lipstick a whole lot?"

Steve flushed. "It's my mom's. Kept buggin' her for it. Wanted to see how fucked-up I looked. Guess I know now." He fell silent again. Bruce had never seen him so utterly dejected.

"No wonder she said you weren't making any sense. Look, I got an idea."

From the back pocket of his jeans, Bruce pulled out one of the bandannas he sometimes wore to keep the hair and sweat out of his eyes. He arranged it over Steve's hurt head with delicate care, right down low to them big thick Italian eyebrows. A neat knot in the back. Showed Steve in the mirror.

"See, you look _good_ in that. Let your freak flag fly."

The corners of Steve's mouth twitched up in a smile. 

"Like a gypsy. Or a pirate."

"Yeah. That gypsy pirate vampire rockstar from the Jersey shore, his soulful zebra skin guitar and songs of love and war, the little girls and neighbor boys are cryin' out for more, beatin' time upon..."

"...the gates of Eden..." they finished together.

"Now all you hafta do is make sure you don't take it off ever. Except in the shower maybe. Gives you...what's the word...an air of mystery. Yeah. That's it."

"Air of mystery." Steve was grinning now. Bruce thought he'd never seen a sweeter sight in his entire life.

"Except I better take that one off and bring you a clean one tomorrow. So the nurses don't freak."

"Heh. Freak out over my freak flag."

Leaning over to untie the bandanna, Bruce suddenly became very aware of Steve's hot breath on his neck. Something inside of him - perhaps the same thing that had flailed in cold panic when he talked to Steve's mom on the phone - now wriggled happily, warm and lazy like Sunday afternoon down on the shore. Color flooded into his cheeks. He drew back to see Steve grinning bigger than ever, the old mischief back in his eyes.

"Shit, Bruce, you doin' that reminds me. I woke up with all these bright lights around me and a beautiful woman in white bendin' over me just like you was then, and I thought I must've died and gone to heaven. But then you showed up and I knew I had to be alive 'cos heaven wouldn't let _you_ in."

"Fuck you, Steve." Steve flipped Bruce the bird and...ohhhh. Oh yes. Whatever it was in Bruce's guts leaped and twisted again, twisted with a kind of _thingness_ , comfortable and uncomfortable and easy and awkward and weird and familiar and wonderful and awful all at the same time. Oh no and oh yes. He didn't have a word for it. Oh no. Oh fuck. The word for it, the word he'd been shrugging off since he turned twelve and giving no thought to unless it came with a kick or a punch or a threat to take his guitar, came to him. Hard upside the head like a violent hand. He flushed.

"Hey, it's OK for me to hug you, right?"

"Yeah. You didn't hurt my head any."

"No, not that. I mean, I was fuckin' scared for you."

"I know."

"Don't make it queer or nothin'." _Queer. Little queer. Fuckin' queer._

"Bruce, there's been some guy or other yellin' queer at us since we was kids and first grew our hair out. I got hair like a square now, daddy-o. I'm gonna miss it. You're gonna have to hug me a whole lot more or it won't feel right."

Steve quirked an eyebrow, then winced and gingerly touched his stitches.

"Not gonna do _that_ again," he said. "Was it OK without me?"

"Huh?"

"The gig. Was the gig OK without me?"

"Sure. The Doors had no bass, remember?"

Steve screwed his nose up. "Don't like the Doors."

"I know. It wasn't _that_ OK without you." It was Bruce's turn to grin, and that weirdness, that _something_ bubbled up again. He felt like hugging Stevie again would feel better than anything else in the world. He felt like hugging Stevie again would be the most terrible idea he'd ever had. It didn't matter how he felt because his arms were around Steve and Steve's arms were around him, and Bruce felt the blood pounding in his throat and his ears and his chest, and christ, Steve _had_ to feel that too, Steve hot and damp like the holding and the being held had him almost as rattled as Bruce, and his hand now on the back of Bruce's neck, rasp of Steven's callused fingers tracing his nape, threading into his curls, and Bruce realized _that ain't what men do either_ and holy fuck, _Steve knows HE KNOWS_ and it's got him too. Or some kinda something like it got him too. Some kinda something, and there was no way that Bruce could get away with that thing the bolder girls sometimes did, stretch out his arm all casual-like, like he was just shifting position, no way he could oh-so-accidentally brush a hand over the sheet where Steve's dick was, and Jesus fucking Christ that was it there, just a touch to know that whatever it was between them had gotten Steve hard like it had Bruce and - 

 

"There they are!" A friendly punch on Bruce's shoulder and there was Danny and Vini, Vini half-hidden behind an armful of some kind of white flowers that looked like he'd knocked over a cemetery.

"You OK?" Danny was blinking and rubbing his eyes, the way he always did when he couldn't work out if the crazy thing he'd just seen existed outside his own brain.

"Nah," Steve said. "He's been tryin' to kill me ever since I told him the last place I seen his other guitar was on the front seat of the car, you know, just before it caught fire..."

They laughed, all of them, and the sound buffeted Bruce's head like an ocean wave knocking him down, and he muttered something about fresh air, before the next thing he realized was that he was leaning against a wall out in the corridor, smoking a cigarette he didn't remember bumming off anyone. Sweat beating on his forehead and slicking his hands and sticking his shirt to his back, like he had a fever or something.

Something seriously wrong with him.

Something gloriously right with Steve.

Some kinda something.

**Author's Note:**

> Little Steven has said on the Underground Garage that it took him a couple of decades to get into the Doors. The car crash really happened and his hair never grew back right. The song is Dylan's Gates of Eden, of course. Stevie wouldn't get his zebra-skin guitar for years, but I thought it would be cool if he did so remembering something Bruce once sang for him.


End file.
